Grow old along with me The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made Our times are in his hand who saith, A whole I planned, Youth shows but half trust God See all, nor be afraid
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'You're wounded!' 'Nay,' his soldier's pride Touched to the quick, he said:...
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Autumn wins you best by this its mute appeal to sympathy for its decay.
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Fear death? - to feel the fog in my throat, / The mist in my face.
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O lyric Love, half angel and half bird. And all a wonder and a wild desire.
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That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, lest you should think he never could recapture the first fine careless rapture!
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Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made:
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I trust in nature for the stable laws of beauty and utility. Spring shall plant and autumn garner to the end of time.
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Stung by the splendor of a sudden thought.
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I would have rummaged, ransacked at the word; Those old odd corners of an empty heart; For remnants of dim love the long disused, And dusty crumbling of romance!
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If two lives join, there is oft a scar, / They are one and one, with a shadowy third; / One near one is too far.
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O lover of my life, O soldier-saint.
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Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp - or what's a heaven for
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For note, when evening shuts, / A certain moment cuts / The deed off, calls the glory from the grey.
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I watched my foolish heart expand / In the lazy glow of benevolence, / O'er the various modes of man's belief.
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Ignorance is not innocence but sin.
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God is seen God In the star, in the stone, in the flesh, in the soul and the clod
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I show you doubt, to prove that faith exists.
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A minute's success pays the failure of years.
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He's Judas to a tittle, that man is! / Just such a face!
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Ages past the soul existed, / Here an age 'tis resting merely.
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By this time he has tested his first plough, / And studied his last chapter of St John.
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I despise and abhor the pleas on behalf of that infamous practice, vivisection... I would rather submit to the worst of deaths, so far as pain goes, than have a single dog or cat tortured to death on the pretense of sparing me a twinge or two.
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Your business is not to catch men with show, With homage to the perishable clay,...
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Just the one prize vouchsafed unworthy me, / Seven years a gardener of the untoward ground.
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Grow old with me! The best is yet to be.
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Creation purged o' the miscreate, man redeemed, / A spittle wiped off from the face of God!
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I count life just a stuff to try the soul's strength on.
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And as she died so must we die ourselves, And thence ye may perceive the world's a dream. Life, how and what is it?
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This may be a blessing for some courses, ... The attrition of the facilities hopefully will match the attrition of the population. The golfers that played at City Park or Eastover will want to play golf. So they will have to go to other facilities.
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